My Little Misfit
by Silver Flame Alchemist
Summary: Her house was the last on the street, and the only one that still had lights on in the windows. It was a welcoming beacon at the end of a long night, and Graverobber wouldn't have traded it for all the money in the world. -implied Graverobber/OC-
1. My Little Misfit

_Graverobber will always be one of my favorite characters, and I thought he could use some love. So here it is.  
_

* * *

Her house was the last on the street, and the only one that still had lights on in the windows. It was a welcoming beacon at the end of a long night, and Graverobber wouldn't have traded it for all the money in the world. And he certainly wouldn't have traded _her_.

She was the only one other than Shiloh that ever looked at him like he was another human being. She'd smile and laugh and run a hand over his back when he was tired, and that was all he needed to remind him he was still alive.

"Claire." Graverobber's gravely tones rang out through the house. "I'm home."

A bleached-blond head poked around the door to the sitting room. She smiled brightly at him as her sparkly purple highlights danced in the low lighting.

"Miss me?" Graverobber teased softly.

Clair rolled her lilac eyes, a playful smile on her lips.

Graverobber always imagined her voice would sound light, like the clothes she wore. " _Of course I missed you, Robby."_

But imagining her voice was as close as he would get to hearing it. The epidemic that had robbed so many of their lives had taken Claire's voice.

But he'd become good at reading her facial expressions, and knew that the smile she was currently giving him meant _welcome home_.

He didn't recall when he'd started caring about seeing her happy, but at some point living with her had become more than just having a place to hide and crash during the day. It had become more about who she was instead of where she lived, and this mute little misfit had suddenly become very important to him. And he still couldn't figure out why.

He could always tell what she was thinking, even though she couldn't say a word. But that was the beauty of it. She didn't talk, and Graverobber never felt like he had to. Not about his life before the epidemic, or why he'd started harvesting illegally, or why he'd begun peddling his drugs… None of it.

There were no questions with Claire. No accusations or assumptions. Just pure, simple understanding. And that was all he'd ever really wanted. Someone who could understand. And when she looked at him, her lilac eyes bright with intelligence and ingenuity, he knew she understood.

Because she would smile, slide on whatever gift he'd brought to silently say _thanks for all you've done, I'm such a God-awful freeloader, and I'm sorry this is all I can give you in return_ and he knew there would never be anyone who could understand him better.

* * *

 _Claire belongs to:_ Silver Flame Alchemist (aka Me)

 _All other characters and locations belong to:_ Terrance Zdunich and Darren Smith


	2. Infected

It had been another late night for Graverobber. But then again, it usually it was. He sighed loudly as he kicked Claire's door closed behind him, calling out through the house. "I'm home."

There was no response. No pattering of footsteps, no closing or opening of doors. No anything. Just pure silence. And it scared him.

Claire always welcomed him home. Always greeted him with a smile and a fond look. _Always_. So what had happened to make tonight different? She wouldn't have gone to bed until she knew he was alright, and even if she _had_ dozed off, she would have been curled up in the chair just across the room from him. But no, there was nothing.

Graverobber took a moment to collect his thoughts, listening for any noise. "Claire?" He called out softly, noting the lack of any signs of forced entry. So, she still had to be here. No one had come in, that he could tell, and she wouldn't have gone out. He'd told her hundreds of times that it was too dangerous for her to go out alone. Without the ability to scream, Claire was far too easy of a target.

The house had only two stories, with no cellar or attic, so she would no trouble hearing him. And even if she was… _indisposed_ , she would have let him know she'd heard him.

He gave the bells on the wall by the door a filthy look, wishing that one of them would ring and tell him where she was. But instead, the bells remained mute, and he had no other choice but to go looking for her.

When the first floor held no answers, he headed upstairs, occasionally calling out her name. Silence continued to answer him, and he found his heart starting to beat faster than it should.

Finally, he stood before her bedroom door, hand hovering over the ornate knob. He took a deep breath, knocked softly, and then opened the door.

Relief began to flood his veins when he saw her lying on her bed. She was just asleep. Of course. It _was_ late, and it had happened before, and he supposed he must have just been over-reacting…

The relief rushing through him turned to ice when he noted the lack of movement from her chest. She wasn't breathing. Two stumbling steps later he was leaning over her, checking for a pulse.

None.

 _Wait_. Yes! There, just a tiny, _tiny_ throb beneath his fingertips. He waited; wanting to be sure he wasn't just imagining it. He lifted her head, acutely aware of how filthy his coat was as he sat on the edge of her bed, acutely aware of how grimy his hands were as they brushed through her hair.

But that wasn't important now. He needed to make sure she started breathing, make sure…

His mind suddenly went blank as he saw the little glass vile on the bed next to her. It was empty, still inserted into the gun like a battery.

With his mind still reeling, he felt Claire shudder next to him, her breath starting to come back in large gulps of air. He had no doubt that if she'd had a voice, she would have been using it to moan.

She clung to him as the last vestiges of the drug wore off, leaving her shaking slightly in his arms. She was panting now, and he could feel her pounding heartbeat through their clothes.

One of her hands snaked up the front of his coat, moving to tangle in his hair, and her eyes slowly fluttered open.

Graverobber had seen people come off Zydrate numerous times, but this… Being so close to it was…

His brain snapped back into gear, and his eyes narrowed dangerously as curiosity and concern gave over to anger and fear. "Claire, what the _hell_ were you thinking?"

Lilac eyes focused in on his, and Claire's face drained of all color. She stared at him, eyes wide, and opened her mouth. She stopped, closing it again, and started to shake her head.

"Oh so you weren't thinking at all, is that it?" He snapped. "I told you no; Claire. _Never_."

She shook her head again, eyes imploring and their message clear. _I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry._ She leaned up to press her forehead against his, the hitch in her breathing the evidence of her fast-approaching flood of tears.

"You scared me, Claire." He whispered softly. " _You_ scared _me_. I didn't think that was possible."

She pulled away far enough to smile at him slightly. _I'm sorry_. She mouthed.

"I know." He looked her over; checking for the needle-marks he now knew must exist. "How long have you been shooting up?"

She stared at him. Her eyes showed her evident surprise and just a touch of… Wounded pride. He'd insulted her.

"This was the first time?" He tried to make his tone conformational, not confrontational. Apparently it worked, because she nodded.

 _And the only time_. She mouthed. _I was just curious. I'm sorry_.

"It's alright to be curious." He replied, relief starting to mingle in with his current agitation. "But you could have asked. I would have told you."

She gave him a questioning look, and he knew she was right. He never would have told her what it felt like to take gun to skin and inject.

"Alright, so I wouldn't have told you." He admitted with a shrug. "But you still could have asked."

She giggled at that, a hissing of air from her nostrils that he'd always found kind of cute for absolutely no reason at all.

"Where did you get it?" That was his next biggest fear after her having formed an addiction. Black Market Z could be dangerous if the harvester didn't know what they were doing.

But smiled sweetly, slipping a hand into the pocket of his coat and pulling a little glass vile out between her forefinger and thumb.

"You pick-pocketed me?" He asked, unable to keep a slight smirk out of his voice.

She nodded eagerly, eyes bright.

"You little sneak; I knew there was a reason why I liked you so much."

Claire's smiled softened, and she pulled him into a hug. He felt her hand slip back into his pocket, returning the full vile to where it belonged.

He moved to return the hug, gently picking up the gun from the bed beside her and slipping it back into his pocket. The last thing he needed was for her to have both the temptation and the opportunity.

He had enough to worry about without having to keep checking her for needle-marks every time he came home.

* * *

 _I regret nothing. XD  
_


	3. Voices

It had started with small things, things that Graverobber only noticed in passing, from the corner of his eye, but _noticed_ all the same.

Fewer smiles and a lack of contact between her petite hands and his clothes, his hair, his skin. Less waiting up for him when he was out late and less excitement when he returned early. Less _Claire_ in general.

And then it escalated, and there was no denying the marked lack of attention she was paying him, or the seemingly endless amount of time she was now spending locked away in her room.

But he never asked what was going on, because he felt like this was all somehow his fault.

Perhaps he hadn't paid her enough attention, or said something he shouldn't halve. Stayed out late once too often, or not given her enough gifts. So he stepped up his game, coming home earlier and earlier and bringing her something back as often as he could. And before he knew it, he'd stopped going out at all.

When Claire noticed, she did what he hadn't been able, and asked what was wrong. It figured that the girls who couldn't speak had been the first one to ask the question that had started this whole thing.

He was worried about her. That's what it came down to, even if he played it up and acted like he was just taking a break. His flimsy charade didn't fool either of them, and Claire pulled him into a hug.

Graverobber remembered then why he'd missed the contact, why he'd missed the hugs. Her slim, warm frame nestled against his larger, colder one. Her hands grasping at his back in order to pull him _that_ much closer as his own hands worried with where to land against her, unaccustomed to this particular act.

And then she pulled away slowly and smiled at him, and he remembered why he'd missed those too.

" _I'm_ _fine_." She mouthed, gaze soft and understanding. " _And the moment I'm not, I'll tell you._ "

The pad of one thumb strayed from its place on her shoulder, catching a slim slice of throat in its errant path. "I'll hold you to that."

* * *

The next week was filled with late nights, as though to prove that he wasn't worried anymore, even though he was, and every time he found her curled up in the armchair by the door, he resisted the urge to wake her up and tell her how much he appreciated it.

But almost immediately after, as though to balance out the progress they'd made, Claire vanished up into her room and wouldn't come out except to make dinner. And, he noticed a little belatedly, she never ate any of it herself. She was eating _something_ , though, because he would find dishes in the sink that weren't his, but were scrubbed clean.

The night he'd decided he would ask her about it was the night she greeted him at the door, suddenly all smiles and sunshine.

It was the smile he noticed first; too large and too bright.

And then it was the thin scar along her neck, reaching from the point of her chin to the hollow of her collarbones.

And finally, it was the light, still-a-little-rough-from-surgery voice whispering a soft, _welcome home_.

* * *

It took him nearly a month to get used to the voice, sounding the way he'd always imagined it would, drifting through the hallways.

Over the first week, all Claire did was talk, explaining her behavior was because she'd been sneaking out at night to go see about surgeons who could fix her up.

And the week before he'd found out had been filled with her coughing up blood and eating only liquids.

But now, _now_ Claire had a voice. A voice that could laugh and tease, and squeal when he picked her up and toted her off to bed. A voice that murmured softly while she slept, and giggled when she woke up suddenly and found he'd been watching her this whole time. A voice that screamed when something creepy and crawly decided to invade her personal space without permission.

A voice that could welcome him home by name. A voice that he would never tire of hearing.

* * *

 _Probably the last one... But also possibly not.  
_


End file.
